Chapter 1
Know what happens when you bring a bottle of cinnamon whiskey to a party? Nothing good, that’s what. It should come with an additional warning label: May cause extreme stupidity and drunk sexting.
I blame it on Emily. Who needs enemies when you have friends like her? She bought the booze and it was her idea to come to this frat party in the first place and practice at being twenty-one before my birthday tomorrow.
I admit, it started off as a good time. Several of my friends are here, the music’s perfect, and there’s a hot tub, so bonus. I’m a crack shot at beer pong and hit the best of all the flat notes during karaoke. But, as we all know, good times and good decision-making aren’t one and the same. I may or may not have butt-chugged Gray Goose with future lawyers and house wives. And I probably danced topless on the sofa since that’s what all the pictures on Instagram are showing—only I don’t pay too much attention to those since that shit can be photo-shopped. During all of this, I lost my shoes, and who knows what happened to my bra.
At least Emily is here to keep me in check. She has always been the responsible one—about as responsible as a toddler dog-sitting, but still, she’s a better grown-up than me.
She suggests a group of us get together to play Would you rather in one of the quieter rooms. It’s a game. No big deal. A game can’t get me in too much trouble, right? Yeah … right.
Her question for me is, “Who would you rather fuck, your ex or his dad?”
Of course I choose his dad, because he was hot and my ex was kind of a douche. Thing is, I’ve always had doe eyes for older men. It all started with my dad’s best friend, Paul. He looks good for his age, a silver fox covered in tattoos, and is in better shape than most guys who go to my school. And OMG those tropical blue eyes and five-o’clock shadow on a strong jaw. Yes, please.
We’ve been flirting since I turned eighteen. He’d tell me how beautiful I was, complement my ass in a pair of jeans, or notice how nicely I’ve developed. It was all innocent. Never going too far, no touching or talking about sex or anything like that. But I want him. Bad. Just thinking about him has me pooling between the legs.
I lean against the pool table, looking around at all these young bucks strutting around the house in their polos and cargo shorts. I wonder which one I can use for the night. Maybe do some role playing, pretend he’s Paul, have myself a daddy fantasy.
A cute jock-type walks by with all his muscles and cocksure youth. His boner is about as subtle as a rocket launcher smuggled under spandex pants. The way he stares at me leaves no questions about his interest. Though I’m definitely in the mood, his baby face just won’t do because I know how this story ends. I’ve read it many times—well, not that many. Enough to count on one hand … and maybe some toes.
I see it so clearly: We’ll end up in his sock-stinky room full of pizza crusts and porn magazines littering the floor. The glow from his snake terrarium and the video game he has on pause will double as mood lighting. He’ll fumble around my body aimlessly and expect me to oooh and ahhh and appreciate all the pleasure he’s not giving me for five minutes until he gets his rocks off. Then he’ll promise to call the next day. I’m bored just thinking about it. So I don’t even bother.
When he heads toward me, I cover my face with my phone and pretend he doesn’t exist. He’s sober enough to get the hint.
I continue to play with my phone even after he’s gone. My ass is wet and sticky from spilled drinks on the floor. I move to the stained, threadbare couch next to Emily and find Paul’s name in my contacts. When I’m bored I like to look through our old texts. Birthday wishes from last year, a Merry Christmas here, Happy Thanksgiving there. There are pictures of us during a houseboat trip, and at an airshow. Unfortunately, my parents are in all the pictures too.
The whiskey has gone to my head and there’s no room left in there for rational thinking. Not a single consequence occurs to me as I type out five little words. I want to fuck you.
I show Emily. “What if I actually sent this?” I can hear myself talking slow and slurring my words. I’ve drank my body weight in everything over fifty proof and it’s starting to show.
She squints at the little screen. My phone is prehistoric and has a Post-It sized screen. When she’s done reading, her eyes go wide and she says, with a sly smile, “What if you did?” Her words are clearer than mine. She never drinks as much as I do. That’s what maturity looks like, and someday I want to be just like her. But right now I’m having fun.
Or at least I was until she reaches over and hits the send button on my phone.